


Black Rose

by RaiWalk



Category: Naruto
Genre: (men are idiots), Edo Tensei abused in unconventional forms, Gen, Madara would like to object to existence, Time Travel, Tobirama is a Troll, We Die Like Men, death gives a new perspective on life, everything is prime trolling material, fair warning: i have not read boruto at all, headcanons galore, plot ambushed me in the shower, prime examples: these two idiots, sanjuno inspired me, unbetaed, you know i just realized i forgot the ship tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:36:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18011021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaiWalk/pseuds/RaiWalk
Summary: Death strips the meaning of a number of things people tend to worry about in life, and Tobirama is no exception. The real threat of actual Existence derailing entirely because of Ootsutsuki family drama does help; nothing is quite worrisome as imminent oblivion.Everything else? Distractions.(It does help that Madara makes the most hilarious faces.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No beta, no plot plan, no nothing. Yay me for typing stuff out at 3am.

He jumps.

Kagami is carefully cradled to his chest, to the leather that covers him chest to waist, holding on tight. Their pursuers babble on about abominations and banishment, and for all that the Edo Tensei holding Tobirama to life is perfected and anchored beautifully, he doesn't actually want to test it against what looks like exorcism techniques.

The chasm is wide, and they're airborne.

In any other situation, he'd try it out-- it is a curiosity that itches at the back of his mind even then-- but he can't in good conscience try it _now_. If any of those techniques work, Kagami will be left alone at the mercy of this dubious clan, Sarada without one of her two summons, while the other is not quite sane.

The jump feels like ages on Tobirama's nerves.

Somewhat of a blessing that Sarada is gathering information in cities, and he'd moved to an isolated plain to try to teach Kagami basic chakra exercises. At least he only has the boy to worry about, and he can contact the woman through his summoning matrix later.

He shifts his legs to land, when arrows slice through him, making him flinch.

Sarada can't fix all of this alone. Not the ridiculous Moon thing, not the damage to existence itself it caused, nevermind the damage to the reincarnation cycle the Sage had wrought 'without meaning to', because of two idiot brothers. It's always brothers.

Tobirama's footing on the other side of the canyon falters, thrown off by the arrows. Kagami screams as he feels gravity start to take hold, and he readies himself to take most of the damage so the boy can come away unscathed--

A length of chain wraps around his waist, and pulls him to safety. He looks up, dread already thinning his lips, as he stares into Madara's face.

Not even Sarada's summon, either, the actual Madara from this time. Tobirama derives some bitter amusement at the man's clear wariness for the Edo Tensei mark on his eyes.

This isn't going to be pretty.

* * *

“Who are you?” is the first thing out of Madara’s mouth once they’re out of range of the Exorcist Clan.

“A hallucination,” Tobirama deadpans. Madara is eyeing Kagami and calculating how to get the boy away from him, he knows. Kagami is a limpet, however, and would be difficult to separate from him even if he was inclined to let the boy go.

“You seemed awfully solid when I _saved_ you,” Madara snaps back, pure irritation in his voice, and Tobirama blinks placidly back, the hand not supporting Kagami’s weight moving to pet the boy’s curly hair. He’s so tiny, so very young. Far younger than when he was originally turned over to Tobirama’s care.

“As the one hallucinating, you’d be the judge of that.”

Something in his tone must give him away, because Madara’s gaze _finally_ leaves Kagami to stare owlishly into his face. “Are you-- are you making a _joke_?” his tone is incredulous.

“Now that is the most _ridiculous_ idea you could possibly have come up with,” but the tiniest quirk of his mouth has Madara’s eyes widening, even as Kagami starts to giggle in his arms.

Tobirama maintains his stare on Madara, even as he pets Kagami. Small joys. Madara blinks at him, befuddled, but before he can open his mouth again, Kagami tugs at his hair.

“Sensei!” he chirps exuberantly, “You hafta see my home! It’s the prettiest village!” Tobirama can’t help but smile at the boy. His student, both now and then, is the sweetest. More so now, since he’s still so young.

“Is it, now? Well, with you there, I’m sure it’s the liveliest village,” he brushes Kagami’s hair back, letting peace fill him as the child stares at him with huge black eyes. Kagami’s expression is so trusting.

“...you’re coming?” Tobirama looks up to Madara eyeing him oddly. He can almost tell what the man is thinking-- not only that Tobirama actually has a sense of humor, but is… humoring an _Uchiha_ child. He wonders when suspicion will-- ah, there it is, on the frown that curves Madara’s forehead, settling over suspicious black eyes.

“I think Kagami might protest if I don’t,” he says levelly. He stares into Madara’s eyes, _daring_ him to separate him from the boy. There’s a flicker of surprise, before _sharingan_ eyes stare back. The genjutsu slides over him, over his edo tensei matrix, and can’t find purchase in his mind.

Madara looks furious.

“You’re trying to find something that isn’t there,” Tobirama tilts his head, “There is nothing you can sink that into. I’m not in your reach.”

“Oh?” the dangerous set of Madara’s hands on his war fan make Tobirama settle Kagami firmly against his side, easier to protect, “And then, how do I _reach_ you?”

“Do you really think I’d tell you,” he deadpans.

To be fair, Tobirama thinks his relatively blasé attitude makes it easier to antagonise Madara-- and makes it _very_ amusing to do so.

“Just be a dear and escort us, won’t you,” he rolls his eyes, adjusting Kagami to a better position before turning to the general direction of the Senju and Uchiha lands.

A long trip ahead…

* * *

Madara hasn’t stopped scolding him, and something about the man has become increasingly frantic the closer they come to the Uchiha grounds.

Tobirama distractedly takes that impression and flips it around, tries to discern what is it. When he slips into the historical time, he pauses in his steps. Madara crashes into his back, and he’s rather sure it’s on purpose, as he notes a hand checking how Kagami is holding tightly to him.

“The Uchiha are at war with the Senju,” Tobirama raises an eyebrow at Madara’s groping hand. He shoulders the man straight before tilting his head to look at him.

“You talk like you forgot about it,” Madara snipes, massaging his elbowed nose.

Tobirama hums. “Oversight,” he dismisses with a blink, then sighs, “and unimportant although irritating. Why haven’t you brokered peace yet?”

Madara bristles at him like an angry porcupine, opens his mouth to protest--

Tobirama pins him with a dead look, “Or are you going to wait for Izuna’s death?”

Madara whitens. His lips press together and his eyes widen in something much like panic, and Tobirama gives him a dry look.

“Let’s go, Kagami,” he addresses the boy on his hip, “let’s get you to your mother.”

He does pay attention to step aside and catch the kunai Madara throws at him.

* * *

“I’m _hungry_!”

By the time Tobirama can see the gates in the Uchiha lands, he can pinpoint an entire entourage of bewildered ninja following them at a distance. He doesn’t know what Madara signaled them, he didn’t bother to look, but it makes no difference.

He hadn’t wanted to part with Kagami, and while he can probably down this Madara, he doesn’t want to. But, well. The child has a family. Still, he will spend as much time as he can with the boy, so giving him to his mother personally is how much he’s willing to do. It also helps he never met Kagami’s mother before. Perhaps meeting this woman will explain a lot about him, it’s something to look forward to.

Madara’s chakra has yet to fully settle, but the outright fury and frantic feeling have mostly faded during their walk. The fact Tobirama is merely walking instead of running full speed might be helping.

Kagami’s whine makes him chuckle, even as he checks nearby bushes and trees for something edible.

“Here,” Madara’s grumpy voice sounds, as he passes them to reach the foliage of a bush hidden behind a tree. The quick snaps of sound make Kagami stretch himself trying to look, until the man returns with several stalks and berries.

“Fishberry!” the boy lights up immensely.

Tobirama examines them as Madara stomps back, and unlatches the metal part of one of his shoulder guards, turning it around.

“What are you--” Madara falls silent as the makeshift bowl is offered to him. He sets the berries and stalks into it wordlessly, and Tobirama takes a breath before gently filling it with water.

“Remember what I told you, Kagami,” he then offers the bowl to the kid.

“Yes! Wash my hands, wash the berries, no funny business in my belly!”

The rhyme makes him chuckle, but Kagami takes the bowl and carefully washes everything like he was taught.

When Tobirama looks up again, Madara is staring at him. A quick check of his senses show that even their entourage has gotten more bewildered. He rolls his eyes at them.

Kagami drains the bowl with his help before happily stuffing a few berries in his mouth, and Tobirama retakes his pace, feeling their entourage break up into chunks to announce their arrival and to land at the gates.

Their faces are priceless.

He really shouldn’t be deriving this much amusement from confusing the Uchiha clan.


	2. Chapter 2

The tea has an interesting taste.

"Wherever did Kagami find you?" the woman asks him with an oddly serene smile, and Tobirama raises his gaze from his teacup to her. She keeps her hands hidden in her sleeves most of the time, but he's not exactly worried if she has blades or needles.

“In the forest,” he answers her blandly, “As I understand, he seems to think my red eyes mean something.” Something, like a _sharingan_. He raises an eyebrow at her and sips his tea again. It is oddly refreshing, and even… trickling chakra into his matrix. He is quite sure _that_ is not an intended side effect, so sips once more and rolls it around his tongue for a moment.

“I see,” her smile strains for just a moment, then relaxes once again. And widens just slightly.

“I suppose,” he says after swallowing, “That you would need to teach your children to be wary of other coloration.”

“Our younger children have trouble noting details of our eyes beyond the red,” she says, and Tobirama blinks placidly at her tone, “But I would think you already knew that, no?”

He tilts his head at her, drinking more. “From my foray into medical arts, it does seem logical that a baby’s eyesight is not fully developed, and takes at least six months to reach a working baseline.”

Something in her expression falters.

“But truly,” he sets down the empty cup and smiles thinly, “At least I am not haunted by children’s ghosts.”

She looks at his empty cup, and her smile steadily turns wooden, in what he recognizes as struggling to keep the expression.

“Wherever did you find that tea?” he licks the corner of his mouth, and allows his smile to widen slightly, “It has a very interesting taste, and I would like a little more, if you would be so kind.”

Nightshade is a classic, after all, and Tobirama always had a sweet tooth.

* * *

Madara barges into a council meeting and starts giving orders before anyone can protest, with his first priority being-- “Izuna, get a tracking team and go find Father,” _getting Izuna the hell away from the compound_.

All present in the room fall silent as his entirely serious tone and he’s quite sure he hasn’t managed to erase the wildness in his eyes.

“Brother?” Izuna rises from his place, frowning, and Madara _knows_ his brother has seen right through him.

He takes a deep breath, and looks his brother in the eyes. “I have come across a reason to believe something went wrong with father’s mission,” and won’t it be _fun_ to explain that reason, “And I need you to see if you can find out _what_ happened, without getting yourself caught. Am I clear?”

Izuna searches his expression for a moment, before he visibly steels himself, “Yes, I’ll get a team and gear up right away.” _But you’re explaining everything once I come back_ , his glare says, and Madara nods.

He waits until Izuna is a good distance away to look back at the assembled people, and he’s marginally glad that it’s not just the elders assembled, but also the civilians and benched shinobi that control the mundane goings of the compound, which makes it easier for the alert to spread.

“We have a problem,” he tells them, and proceeds to explain exactly what he found returning from his own mission.

* * *

Tobirama wakes and immediately groans at the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

He already knew when he drank the small cups the day before that it would end up being more trouble that it was worth, and now the consequences have come. Regardless, a rather small price to pay to deal with Hashirama’s obnoxiousness at the time. He has work to do, no matter how happy his brother is that his fiancée is finally coming to visit the Senju compound.

He raises his head from the desk and presses his fingers over his eyes for a moment, before shuffling the papers on his desk.

The Senju finances are going well-- a little _too_ well for his tastes. Recent missions that should be difficult had been returning everyone sent, and while they are good news…

Something keeps him on edge. There should be more casualties. Six missions completed with honours and no loss?

Every single one of their shinobi know that a mission can _always_ be their last one, and while the strongest of the clan are good, they cannot take _all_ the dangerous missions, only the most critical ones.

It is worrying, because he doesn’t know _who_ might be behind this-- their allies would have told them, they would have _heard_ something from other clans, their enemies would be retreating…

They were all born into war, and they have survived because they have _good_ instincts, his brothers forgive him for the insult, and Tobirama won’t start ignoring them now.

It’s as he’s reviewing mission reports that Matsu enters, out of breath.

“Ren’s group returned,” he says without preamble, “He insisted that he needs to report _now_.”

Tobirama gathers the papers and thoughtlessly pushes them into a drawer, “Injuries?” he asks as he rises from his place.

Matsu falls into step beside him as they make their way to the compound’s gate. According to his hurried explanation, Ren is the most injured of the group, even as all of them show signs of being forced unconscious in various ways.

When the team comes into view, they all straighten, and Tobirama assesses them-- there are bruises, dilated pupils, one of them gingerly holding an arm, but before they can say a word, Ren is trying to get up from the mat even as his squad panics and hurries to hold him down.

“None of you idiots saw anything!” he snaps when his squad tries to convince him to rest while they give the report, “Tobirama,” he calls half desperate, half deferential, “Kaki and Mori were down before we realised anything was wrong, and Take was hit on the head and _doesn’t remember a thing_ ,” he snaps the last part to cut off whatever Take would have said.

“Kaki, Mori, Take,” Tobirama interrupts before it can escalate, “I’ll hear your reports later. Ren, _lay down_. The medics are going to move you, _I will hear as you are moved_.” Ren’s mouth clicks shut even as the others slowly move away, “Now, from the beginning.”

* * *

Sarada stuffs another vial in her pack.

“This isn’t good,” she mutters to herself, “we haven’t found a manner to go about this that _doesn’t_ require direct interaction with each person. We don’t have time to do it like this.”

Madara tilts his head, keeping his hands steady as he cleans his scythe. The vials in her pack clink gently. He hasn’t spoken much, he knows, but he doesn’t think his input is generally appreciated.

“Here,” her footsteps come closer and he turns to face her just before her hesitant touch pulls one of his hands and deposits another vial in the palm of his hand, “I don’t like keeping all of it with me. If you get a chance, use it. If I’m available, I’ll supply you with more.”

It’s odd, he thinks, rolling the tiny vial in his fingers. She’s a descendant, part of the Uchiha family, and yet has inherited much more from outside lines than the Uchiha themselves. It seems to have made her ever stronger, instead of (like the Uchiha elders of old feared) diluting the sharingan at all.

“Damnit,” he hears a scuffle, like she tripped, and her hand scraping on tree bark, she sniffles.

She never saw him fight, not before this whole escapade; she never _saw_ him go against the entire world. She’s only heard stories.

It helps, he thinks as he stands, securing his scythe to his back, that he is under her control as an Edo Tensei summon. (He is also painfully grateful that although he _deserves it_ , she never really exerts that control over him.)

“Maybe,” his voice rasps with disuse as he offers her a hand to pull her up, “It might be a good idea to imitate him. Recruit someone to help,” he’s a hypocrite, isn’t he? Suggesting she get another _opinion_ , when he’d closed his eyes and ears to anything different than the Moon Eye back then, “This is too big for just us.”

Sarada’s grip on his hand tightens, and he can almost hear her hesitation. “Who, though? He managed to get himself close to the crux of the problem, but I don’t think it’d be easy for us.”

Madara gives her a weak shrug, letting go of her hand once she can stand. “We don’t need to get close to the Senju. We can find someone else.”

“Like who?”

Self-conscious, he touches the mask over his eyes. “The Nine.”


	3. Chapter 3

The Uchiha are, as a whole, agitated. Tobirama doesn’t even have to be a sensor to notice it, not with how their best fighters circle him warily and make sure all the others keep their distance. His encounter with nightshade tea must be making its rounds, he muses, because he can sense the wariness increase, and even the most curious of them don’t really try to get a peek around the guards.

The woman who had played host to him, so _graciously_ , had excused herself and then hurried her way to where he can still sense Madara. Tobirama still has to fight a grin at remembering her face when she realized her poisoned tea wasn’t, and _wouldn’t_ , work on him.

Still, the faster they realize they can’t harm him, the better. They won’t hurt themselves trying to.

Madara’s signature spikes. The woman must have finally reported to him.

“You,” he sets down the crystal he’d been observing and turns to face the man, “how did you survive that?”

Oho, a brave one. Tobirama closes his fingers around the crystal and eyes him. Fairly stereotypical of an Uchiha, black hair clipped to one side of the head, black eyes narrow and seething. “Oh?”

“Akane is unparalleled,” the man’s mouth twists, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Tobirama eyes him. “There is very little you can do that might actually harm me,” he tells the man blandly, “And poisoned tea is not one of them.”

Madara’s signature is approaching, being led by the woman-- Akane, no doubt. Tobirama isn’t worried, and maybe this will be educational. He tucks the crystal into a small pocket before flattening his hands on the table. The man in front of him is snarling, eyes alight with rage and sharingan, and his genjutsu barely even registers. He’s not Madara, with enough strength and will to actually touch Tobirama’s matrix, and his intent is easy to read.

Madara and Akane appear in his sight as the man unsheathes his daggers and stabs through both Tobirama’s hands.

There’s utter silence.

The man seems to realize what he has just done, even if still uncomprehending of the real gravity. Madara, after a moment of shock, speeds up his gait to reach them. Akane stays behind, white as a ghost. All the surrounding Uchiha, from the fighters to the curious, are still.

“Haru!” Madara hisses. There’s panic in his voice, and his gaze has yet to leave Tobirama, “What the _fuck_ is your problem!”

The man-- Haru-- jolts, “I used my strongest genjutsu, I’m not an--”

“Idiot,” Tobirama interrupts blandly, moving his hands up so he can grip the blades and pull them out of the table, “You don’t leave your weapons behind, and…” he looks back up even as he turns his hands so the guard is pointing to the ground, “You make sure your genjutsu actually works before attacking.”

Madara has shuffled Haru behind him, and all the surrounding Uchiha have taken a step back. It’s hilarious, like he has a plague of some sort, and again he has to tamp down on his laughter. He’s not a complete buffoon. Madara’s wild gaze says he is only _mostly_ successful on keeping his amusement secret.

“Be a dear and remove them?” he stares into Madara’s eyes and offers his hands.

There’s an entirely unsubtle exchange where Madara kicks Haru away and approaches with the half offended half disturbed grace only he can muster, hands steady with tension like only shinobi of their caliber can muster. “There’s… no blood,” he says in the silence.

“Indeed,” Tobirama raises a brow at him, and this time the laughter is in his voice. Madara stares at his impaled hands for a moment before looking back up. “You don’t need to worry about getting any on you.”

He can almost hear the teeth grinding.

His hands are gentle in a wary way, turning first his right hand so he can grip the guard and Tobirama’s wrist to pull them apart-- the dagger slides out with little resistance-- then the left.

Tobirama pulls his hands up, staring through his hands at Madara, and they can both see the unnatural white material-- no muscle, no bone-- knit itself together before taking on Tobirama’s skin color. He turns them to see the other side and hums. “I must thank him,” he says off-handedly, “I hadn’t wanted to test this myself, but this is good to know. That’s a good speed for recovery.”

On the periphery of his senses, he feels the curious Uchiha moving away, horrified. Most fighters he can see look faintly green, and Akane is nearing a panic attack.

Madara is staring at him, entirely disturbed. “What _are_ you?”

“Now,” and finally Tobirama lets a grin free as he sets his hands down, “that would be telling.”

* * *

Madara is not entirely sure how much of a disaster he’s averted, or if it was a disaster at all.

Haru’s been shuffled away by the more sensible people, and he knows that the first thing he’ll do once this is done, is order the entire clan to distance themselves from…

From…

(Is it even a person? With those black sclera?)

...Tobirama.

Is it bad if he calls this thing by that name? Would it invite disaster on their clan? Should he write Hashirama? This is obviously not normal. What _happened_ to his brother? This kind of thing only shows up in _fairytales_ and that is not reassuring in the least. Fairytales of the terrible ending sort, and while he has never been superstitious, it's difficult to forget these tales when confronted with such a... being.

He must take too much time in his head, because _he_ removes a trinket from a sleeve pocket and raises it against the light with a hum. Madara watches absently as the light plays tricks on the crystal, the deep purple shading towards red and back.

“Not close at all,” the distracted thought is loud in the silence.

“What?” Madara brings himself out of his stupor and-- Tobirama glances at him.

“Hmm?” He dearly, _dearly_ , wishes he could throw Tobirama into a pond. Just once. But it might be a little too hazardous for his health.

“What is that?” he asks instead, tamping down forcefully on his temper. Tobirama gives him an unnerving and considering gaze, the black sclera bringing to mind rot, or maybe corruption.

“A locator,” he answers simply, “of… _enemies_.”

Something about the emphasis gives it a weird meaning. Oddly, he’s firmly certain that Tobirama doesn’t mean the Uchiha. Still, the eerie gaze roves over his face, searching for something. He must find it, because Tobirama offers him the crystal, and Madara realizes it’s wrapped in wire to make a necklace of sorts.

“Here,” all the amusement previously hidden in the lines of his face has disappeared, leaving only something solemn in its place, “It will get steadily warmer when an _enemy_ is close.”

“Would it react to _you_?” he asks even as he gingerly takes the crystal. It’s ice cold in his hand.

“Am I your enemy?” the amusement returns to Tobirama’s face, in the way his head tilts the slightest bit, and his eyes slant with mirth.

Madara stares at him. Stares at his relaxed posture, at the way his hands don’t stray near what he’s sure are hidden weapons, how he doesn’t look away. “You could have killed Haru,” he says instead.

“Whatever for?” his posture doesn’t change, “It’s not like he can harm me.”

“You could,” Madara has to control his grip on the crystal, “You could have killed a lot of us.”

And isn’t it funny? This… abomination, as that bizarre clan had called, could have killed Kagami, could have probably killed _Madara_ , and yet…

Yet, Tobirama sits before him, rolling his eyes.

( _Oversight_ , he’d said _and unimportant although irritating_. He was talking about a centuries old _war_.)

Hashirama’s brother rolls his eyes at him as if _he_ is the unreasonable one, even when he performs frankly ridiculous feats-- are they even done with chakra? He can’t tell. The abomination doesn’t fear the sharingan, rightly so as it had… seemed to simply scatter into mist when Madara had tried. Weapons can’t hurt him.

Madara doesn’t think he is a _sennin_ , an immortal.

That leaves _yuurei_ , the hungry dead.

Tobirama doesn’t look hungry.

“Eat with me,” he blurts out anyway. Better to keep an eye on him than let him wander off in the Uchiha grounds, when he has already creeped out more than half of them.

Tobirama looks with half-lidded eyes, laughing eyes, at him. “If you want.”

Madara would like to note that he regrets his tendency to blurt out the first half assed idea he has.


	4. Chapter 4

Tobirama takes in the room, the bare bones of hospitality, and shrugs. Minimum required for a normal, living, human. For him, the minor amenities are actually a luxury.

Beginning with the bed, since he does not actually need sleep.

Still, this was the room ultimately decided that he would stay, in the main house. With Madara in the room right down the corridor, and guards rotating around him every couple of hours; he could even sense them switching turns outside.

He sits in the middle of the room, arranges himself in the most comfortable position he can manage, and begins to meditate. Expands his chakra, leaving it in a neutral-- if not natural-- state.

Then, he allows his soul to pulse from his core to the tips of his range, rather like a demented sort of sonar.

He ignores the agitation it causes on the close by guards, sensors, and allows his chakra to seep into the wood of the house, into the nearby ground and slowly streaming it farther and farther away. Faintly, he feels a few sensors try to stem his presence, lock his chakra into his room, but he ignores them.

Madara’s genjutsu did not take, and these guards don’t know enough about seals to think on how to modify them for him. He knows they follow his streams, trying to discern what he’s doing, but really. He’s not doing anything dangerous...to them.

On the contrary.

He’s poisoning the grounds around the main house against Zetsu.

* * *

Strangely, Madara opens his eyes with the sun rising, having slept soundly. He shouldn’t have been able to, not with Tobirama turning his presence into the equivalent of a chakra _bell_.

He’s still doing it, and Madara has to force himself up to go see the guards he set the night before, his body feeling languid and more rested since… he can’t remember.

It takes him an hour to stumble out of his bed, dress and find one of the sensor guards, Daiki, with his face pinched and eyes confused, glancing at the door to Tobirama’s guest room.

“What is he doing?” Madara hisses.

Daiki spares him a wild glance, still confused. “We don’t know,” he answers lowly, “He’s been doing that, and, uh. _Reaching_ into the ground, and no matter what we tried to do to contain it, it doesn’t work.”

Madara sees his hesitation, the confusion deepening. “And?”

Daiki shifts from one foot to the other. “We asked Akane if she knew of a way to check whatever he was doing. She, uh, brought a bowl of water close,” his eyes returned to the door, “His chakra-- _he_ \-- filled the water as she set it down. Didn’t even try to stop it. Akane took the bowl and left.”

She must have used her gloves, he knows, as their foremost expert on herbs and mixing, knowing it wasn’t wise to touch such a thing bare-handed.

“She came by just now,” Daiki adds, “She’s in the tea room, waiting for you, sir.”

Tobirama’s chakra pulses again, and Madara has to lock his knees to prevent wobbling. Daiki, he realizes, is leaning on the wall for a reason. Madara can feel it, however, how the chakra insinuates itself beneath them like roots, reaching deep and far around the house.

Madara knows killing intent. Knows the will and discipline a shinobi has, the patience to smile while poisoning slowly.

This does not resemble anything of the sort.

The chakra curls, little whorls of movement spreading like mixing liquids, and the only thing he can feel from it is a vague warmth insinuating itself in every corner it can.

Suffusing everything with a vague light, filling up cracks he hadn’t even realized were there.

Madara nods to Daiki and makes his way into the tea room, clenching his hands into fists to stop them trembling.

Akane looks up as he enters, white knuckled on her teacup, waits until he sits in front of her to speak. “It’s not harmful,” she says, bewildered, “It just… infuses things with heat. I… I think it _heals_.”

Does it, Madara tightens his lips, feeling agitation grow in his chest, does it indeed.

“One third of the guard couldn’t stay awake,” she continues, lowering her voice so even the guards at the door and windows can’t hear, “I checked them. Some had _chakra imbalance_ , Madara-sama, a little bit more of yin or a bit more of yang. It was soothing the agitation that causes,” her eyes are wide and she releases the teacup to clutch at her sleeves, “A couple had old injuries, and those were…” she flounders, disbelief coloring her voice, “ _Nudged_ closer to health? Not to mention the ones I didn’t find anything wrong with, but once I woke them, said they haven’t slept that well in _years_.”

“Healing,” he says faintly, “through _our_ chakra, is that what you’re implying?”

She just stares at him, and Madara blinks, realizing just how frazzled she looks.

“Go to your own bed, Akane,” he presses his fingers on his eyes, “You look like you’ve been up for a month.”

* * *

The ground is scorched.

Stained black with no ash, just a flat dark surface covering the clearing.

“Anything?” Izuna asks tersely, as he studies it. He thinks ‘scorched’, but any sort of fire he knows would have left ash behind, not just this… thing that almost does not look like earth. Still fire.

“Several tracks come into this area,” Ryuji tells him somberly eyeing the scorched plane, “but only one leaves. Boot marks, and something heavy being dragged along.”

“A body?” Izuna flickers his sharingan up into his friend’s face.

“A weapon,” he answers quietly, “At the very least a metal staff. The grooves in the dirt are too deep for wood.”

One person with a metal staff, obliterating… Izuna flickers his eyes to the tracks. Five, seven, nine fighters at the least. The rest of the clearing has no other signs of this scuffle, and the track leaving is sure-footed. Nine fighters outclassed by one.

“Izuna!” Ryuji’s twin, Shuji calls from further off, “There’s more this way!”

They leave the flat clearing to follow him, and Izuna notes how they follow the tracks backwards, earlier, and not only are there tracks that appear out of nowhere (suddenly disappearing?) but there are also more and more signs of struggle the further they go.

“Here,” Shuji calls again, from a tree, and Izuna can see how the further back they follow the paths, the more marks of struggle they find. There are scorch marks on bark, nicks from bladed weapons… and even groves with broken nails. “Look at this.”

Izuna looks at where he’s pointing, a specific mark on the tree… a seal. Shuji is careful not to touch it, and Ryuji leans closer to squint at it, but Izuna flares chakra in his eyes to record it. The seal is tiny, but also burned out, used to its limit. Around it, deeper fingers marks, like someone anchoring themselves on the tree around the seal. No other marks on the entire tree, even as around them loose branches creak with damage.

“What in the world…” Ryuji murmurs.

“Where did they come from?” Izuna asks, nodding to the path.

“Koshiro followed it,” Shuji tells him in a low voice, “It’s far, and…” he peers at Izuna’s face, hesitant.

Ah. Izuna can tell where this is going. “Father’s mission,” he hisses.

The mission Uchiha Tajima had insisted was utmost priority, and taken tiny Kagami with. Kagami’s mother had been too sick to protest, and Madara found out only after Tajima was gone from the compound, when Koemi had finally been able to get out from her bed and dragged herself in tears to the main house.

They still don’t know what Tajima had been thinking. And here? Midway through Senju allied territory? Still, it makes for a poor picture.

His father’s squad is there, gruesomely left behind. Their eyes carved out. His father is not among them.

Izuna feels a sharp twist in his gut. He’s not stupid.

“We’re going to follow that last track,” he tells the three standing around him, “And we’re going to find out what  _exactly_ happened here.”

* * *

Tobirama leaves his room and follows the presence to the tea room, where Madara sits, clutching a cup with wide eyes.

He sits across the Uchiha, eyeing the cup and the teapot, but he also knows Madara won’t have the nightshade to add to it. Pity. Madara turns his head to watch him, in silence.

It’s as Tobirama is contemplating getting up to ask the lovely woman, Akane, for some poisoned tea, that Madara finally seems to shake himself.

“What do you want?”

He turns his gaze to meet the man’s. Tilts his head, amused. “That is a very vague question.”

Madara’s visible eyebrow slants in annoyance. “Why are you _here_? Why are you helping? What do you _want_?”

Tobirama looks at him, at how he wants a blunt answer to a blunt question, and… it’s… almost _cute_ , he thinks. This Madara untouched by Zetsu, untouched by Izuna’s death, untouched by madness. Just straightforward, walking on with tied hands and hopeful heart--

It’s sad, actually.

He sets both his hands on the table and studies him. His hair needs brushing, with a few sticking up and out in funny shapes; his face is oddly gaunt and lined with clear stress; his clothes put together well, but his shirt is inside-out. Madara looks better than yesterday, he realizes, and he knows the man slept close by while he meditated.

He raises a hand, under those watchful black eyes, and telegraphs his movement, griping Madara’s chin and raising his face. How odd that he even allows Tobirama to touch him.

“I am dead,” he says, watching as the dark eyes narrow, “My killer is still out there.”

“I will not harm my family--”

Tobirama shuts him up by coming close, too close. “They were not an Uchiha, Madara.”

Madara straightens, chin still in his hand, and Tobirama gives him a thin, razor sharp smile.

“They were not an Uchiha, despite trying to convince me of such. They were something _else_.”

And _finally_ , after this mad gamble begun with Kagami, Tobirama allows himself to feel _triumph_. Because Madara’s entire expression darkens steadily as he thinks on each implication those words unfold. (Because there is very much truth in those words. Ultimately, the Madara of his time killed him. Ultimately, the Madara of his time was _Zetsu_.)

Madara stands in a rush, and Tobirama lets him go. Madara sucks in a harsh breath, searching his expression. “I _want_ ,” Tobirama hisses venomously, “ _Vengeance_.”

In the end, however, humans are free to choose their own path. Tobirama, despite having planned half this excursion, knows this.

Madara still surprises him when he formally bends down to one knee, one open palm on the ground, the other facing up between them in offering, expression still dark. Tobirama’s surprise must be clear, because his presence feels smug for a moment, and then he breaks all notions Tobirama once entertained about him.

“I here swear, by my head, that your vengeance will be dealt. Your killer will meet death by my doing. May the Gods strike me down if I lie, and may my blade strike true at the heart of this enemy who would wrong us _both_.”


	5. Chapter 5

His first thought is to ask who was this and what they have done with Madara.

His second is _Does he know?_

Madara is still on one knee. His inside-out shirt has rumpled a bit more, and his robe flared dramatically around his feet. His hair has fallen into place, and his eyes are bright, locked with Tobirama’s own.

How… _odd_.

Madara can’t have known. He’s offering this much, an _oath_ , without actually knowing what it entails; especially to the dead.

...is this what Hashirama saw? No, it can’t have been. Hashirama always saw the best in people, and he had the power to allow himself to trust blindly. Madara would have been taken in and shown the same right from the start.

But this? This is Madara throwing himself off a cliff, not realizing how many handholds he has. This is Madara throwing himself into what he thinks is the sea, when it is just a deep pond.

Tobirama… can’t use this. Oh, he’s tempted, but the bare notion of it makes his stomach turn, even dead and atrophied. He looks into earnest eyes, thinks on the words of the oath. Madara is offering him a _lot_ , even without realizing, on _faith_ alone.

Madara fidgets.

He’s dead, not heartless.

Before the man can rescind his offer, Tobirama clasps his wrist. Those black eyes flicker to their hands, then back, and he readies to stand. Tobirama squeezes his wrist and keeps him down, studying him a moment longer.

“I here swear,” he moves closer so he can whisper, this is not something for anyone else to hear, “by my passage to beyond, you will not die in my vengeance. For your blade, I offer my shield. May the Gods strike me if I lie, and may our enemy never know you.”

The surprise that crosses Madara’s expression is something else. Then he gasps when he feels the oath burning around his wrist, Tobirama only releases him when it’s done.

“How curious,” he tells the man inspecting the red lines shackling his arm, “What a person you are.”

Madara looks at him, frowning. “What is that supposed to mean?” But it’s not as confrontational as Tobirama would expect from him. He lets the sleeve of the robe fall over his wrist, and the mark is covered completely. “Does it need to be visible?”

“I would rather you cover it,” he demurs, picking up the teacup and drinking the last of the tea even as cold as it is, “It does explain the exact words of the oath.”

He pauses in surprise, looking at the lines again, even as Tobirama watches him from behind the cup. Madara seems… quieter now. He pulls a small roll of bandages from a close drawer, gingerly rolling it over the red lines until they stop being visible, then ropes a small leather string over it. It looks more like a hair tie than a bracelet.

Tobirama doesn’t much like surprises, he knows, but pleasant surprises are… something he grudgingly prefers.

“What will you do now?” Madara asks him as he finishes the knot on the leather.

What indeed. Tobirama hums. “It seems I will not be leaving your side for a while.”

The put upon expression it earns Tobirama is _gold_.

Well, he didn’t expect this, but he thinks he might enjoy it.

“Hey! That’s _my_ tea!”

Enjoy it _very_ _much_.

* * *

Sarada pauses a few paces forward, and he can hear the rustle of her sleeves. Madara comes to a stop close, and tilts his head.

There’s nothing in the wind. The animals of the forest have been devoured, one way or another. The breeze carries only the scent of flowers and a distant humidity. They’ve been tracking this odd trail for a while, and it keeps flickering in and out of their view. Not to reflect on Sarada’s abilities as a tracker, but on the capacity of the thing in eluding them.

“The anchor is different,” Sarada mutters.

Well. He’s right there and he hasn’t done anything to change it, so it must be…

“What did he do…” Sarada despairs, “The anchor is all weird now, he’s still connected, but. Is this someone else connected too? How did he manage that?”

“Is it someone connected to _you_ or to him?” Madara raises his face into the nippy breeze, wishing they traveled more in daytime. He wants to feel the sun on his not-quite-skin.

Sarada hums, and he can feel her chakra shift in analyzing patterns. “To him,” she answers surprised, “It’s connected to him, but since the anchor is… that’s odd.”

Disregarding the anchor, a connection between what is basically a _yuurei_ and another being is… “An oath,” he says, turning his body in her direction, “He has sworn an oath.”

Sarada distractedly starts walking again. “Which means I now have one more soul in my responsibilities,” she says as Madara falls into step behind her, allowing his chakra to seek out the spots she’d stepped on to follow, “...what a bother.”

He snorts. “I’d say that one is _his_ before it’s yours, Miss.”

Her walk falters for a second, and Madara realises that… he hasn’t made a similar sound in ages. A minimal sound of… of mirth, if not happiness. His heart hurts.

“I think he’d exhaust himself before leaving this sort of responsibility for you,” he finishes the thought somewhat distantly. It’s true that what they’re doing is… _noble_ , and something directly out of some heroic ballad, saving the world. In the end, Madara is tired above all. 

Their world is gone. Their _time_ is gone. Everything that was ever theirs, is _gone_.

Izuna is gone, not even allowed some rest, his soul torn asunder like all others they were forced to leave behind.

“I don’t really mind,” she finally says, an awkward lilt to her voice, another rustle of clothes that he recognizes as her sleeves being pushed back down.

Madara hums. “You are far too sweet for this time,” he tells her quietly, “Don’t accept things at face value.”

“I promise,” she tells him solemnly, as they finally leave the godforsaken forest, “From others, at least. I know I can trust you guys.”

He falters in his step for a second.

_This child..._

* * *

The first meal they had, sitting face-to-face, Madara had been too nervous to think through an interrogation. Sweat had ran down his neck, guards had shuffled anxiously in the corners and outside the dining room they had been in, only the two of them eating.

They had all been waiting for Tobirama to show his unnaturality in another way, beyond his corrupted eyes. Sharp or too many teeth, a mouth that opens a little too wide, nails a little too sharp. Maybe a bulging stomach after eating more than a human can, or features that widened or ran longer than they were supposed to.

None of those appeared.

There was no lengthening of hair or high-pitched screaming. No sudden darkness, no ominous feeling of _hunger_ spreading.

Tobirama ate with chopsticks and irreverent manner, even if not outright disrespectful. He ate meat, rice, vegetables. Anything they sorted out, he ate. Even the things he made a disgusted face at, in the end, he ate.

Madara supposes he’s glad Tobirama isn’t outright steeped in madness, for all that he’s still a most odd manner of revenant, which means he apparently will not go for human flesh. He makes a mental note to keep an eye out for that anyway.

This second meal goes much in the same way, in that there are guards _everywhere_ , Tobirama sits placidly in front of him twirling a chopstick in thought, and there is an overflowing quantity of food. The cooks must be still nervous.

Consideringly, Madara looks over the plates and pushes away the ones he doesn’t like and remembers Tobirama frowning over, before pulling his own spiced rice closer. The servant girl hurriedly takes the plates he separated and disappears with them.

When he raises his gaze, mouth full of rice, Tobirama is staring at him. He raises an eyebrow.

The revenant hums before beginning to eat.

This is the most peaceful meal Madara has in years.

* * *

Hashirama returns just as Tobirama is beginning to fray under the weight of his conjectures. His brother can even tell how distracted he is as they are supposed to talk about everything that happened in the Daimyo’s court, but Ren’s report is a lead weight on his thoughts.

Hashirama trails off, eyes intent, and Tobirama rubs a hand over his eyes.

“What happened?” What _didn’t_ happen, Tobirama wonders to himself.

“Ren returned with a disturbing report from a scouting mission,” he hands his brother the transcription, headache increasing, “They were sent to investigate a client, but were ambushed. Apparently, the enemy downed the other three and was about to strike him, but someone else interfered.”

Tobirama pauses. Nevermind the implications, he knows Hashirama’s reaction is going to give him either a headache or heartache. His brother looks at him, frowning, and he can almost imagine him happy, because the overall outcome is good, right? He has yet to instill in Hashirama the idea that things are always more complicated than they seem.

“Two Uchiha,” he starts again, “A man with a scythe and a medicine woman. While the man drove back their assailant, the woman… had all four of them drink something, and while the other three didn’t react, Ren says he… he vomited ichor not ten minutes after drinking whatever she gave him.”

“Ichor?” Hashirama frowns at him, “did he get a sample?”

“No,” he shakes his head, fingers clenching and unclenching, “Ren described it as ‘waking after a long dream’. He remembers that whatever she made him drink, was from the same flask she gave the other three. This, he’s certain. He’d been exceedingly wary the moment he realized they were Uchiha, or at least the woman, but once he’d… expelled it, he says his mind was clearer than it had been since…” and here he winces.

Hashirama looks up from the report and sighs. “...since his brother’s death.”

“I think I wrung out every detail from him, including that the woman had the characteristics of an Uchiha, and didn’t deny the name, but never once did she use her _sharingan_ , while the man had his eyes covered.”

His brother sets down the transcription and crosses his hands under his sleeves, but something exceedingly vulnerable crosses his face as he stares at the scroll.

This, _this_ , is why Tobirama dreaded saying a word. He’s again thinking of _peace_. Like it would be as easy as talking at another clan leader in the middle of a battle, cajoling and trying to convince, when in reality… he shakes his head. His brother isn’t going to listen to him on this. And, the heartache sings shrilly, he hasn’t listened to Tobirama in this matter for years. He won’t start listening now, so he stays quiet and stares at the scrolls under his fingers.

He doesn’t look up as Hashirama takes the scroll back into his hands like it’s a precious gem.

Tobirama squints his eyes as he can almost follow the thought process, on how Uchiha saving Senju _must_ be a prelude to peace, somehow.

Tobirama is more worried about who the Uchiha saved Ren _from_ , but he’s not going to get through Hashirama right now. His fingers clench on his brush, and his letters come out crooked, even as he makes a note to send Ren's team to investigate where they'd been assaulted. His fingers stay white in his effort to prevent his hands from shaking.

Hashirama leaves without another word, taking the scroll with him, but that was also predictable, and Tobirama has a second copy.

His shoulders slump.

He thinks he’ll restrict himself to the finances desk for the foreseeable future.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am being productive? What is this sorcery??

They trip.

Koshiro steadies the both of them with a heave, Izuna trying to move his sluggish limbs to help.

Ryuji and Shuji both stayed behind, there was little to be done to convince them otherwise-- they are all that the other has, they wouldn’t survive if the other did not, and Izuna promised they would be remembered somehow. It’s a shameful sort of gratitude, but it is what they have in these times.

They’re trying to be stealthy about it, running away. Still, it seems like the forest has developed a grudge, with how often they trip on a root or a branch hits them in the face. How unlucky.

Koshiro is breathing erratically, panicking, and Izuna is still dizzy, head spinning from a too strong blow to the back of his head. Koshiro’s frantic mumbling is distracting.

What attacked them? Izuna frowns at a passing tree, trying to think through a growing headache. A person? An animal? Maybe it was too dark to see…

His foot snags on another branch, but Koshiro doesn’t pause, just tightens Izuna’s arms around him and tries to speed up even more.

Something hurts.

Koshiro screams.

* * *

Twirling his scythe, Madara slices through mercenaries in their way. It seems they’ve become mildly notorious, a pair of Uchiha, because the mercenaries are decked in poorly made copies of Senju gear, which is a blasphemous sort of thing. Neither Hashirama nor Tobirama would be so low as to send this sort of squad to hunt down two Uchiha who have proved harmless to them. Or at least, they’d send sensible people to _talk_ to them before attacking.

Sarada makes a disgusted sound and kicks one of them. “This…”

“Yes,” Madara doesn’t need to turn to see her face, creased in anger, “Fakes. We best remove the sigil from their clothes.”

Her mouth curls at the corner, angry, but she diligently crouches and begins ripping the Senju sigil off of their clothes, pocketing the metals that had it hastily scratched on.

Madara allows his focus to expand, to make sure there are no more enemies, before he stops pushing on the containment seals and lets his vision grow dark. He scratches his nose under the mask, and sighs at the nervous habit he’s picked back up, turning to follow the noise of Sarada’s angry muttering.

“Do we send this to someone?” She asks once he’s closer.

He considers it, but he already knows that _sending_ it to someone is a bad idea. The most interested parties are the Uchiha, who would not understand the nuance and possibly believe it as a threat, and the Senju themselves, who would at minimum be offended at the poor copy of their sigil… and if not directed, accuse the Uchiha of forging it.

Any others involved in the skirmishes would use it to their advantage, one way or another.

“Keep them, for now,” he sighs, “Clan seamstresses all have specific rules for embroidering, and any shinobi worth their weight has to be able to tell at a glance if a sigil of their clan is genuine or not. _Those_ are so badly done I’m surprised anyone even thought these imbeciles were Senju.”

Sarada’s chakra spikes, and Madara feels his own lips curl slightly. She learns fast, these small nuances.

Only shinobi who _wanted_ to be fooled would be, even if civilians did not give a second glance to the sigils.

“There’s a small town nearby, right?” Sarada asks, voice forcefully neutral.

Madara cocks his head, but his chakra sense is open. “Yes. Civilian. Why?”

“Just wondering,” her voice lightens in a manner that makes his inner bloodthirsty demons perk up interestedly, “If these _imbeciles_ would go so far as to terrorize some civilians.”

Oh, she’s good. He smiles, all teeth. “Fear does create resentment,” he agrees, equally lightly, “Makes them more susceptible to ask for help from those who share in their resentment.”

“Yes,” she says, standing up, “I think we should spend our night there, this time. Look the part. Maybe complain about bandits impersonating people out of their league.”

Oh, this child, Madara follows her with his teeth still out, after his own heart, indeed.

* * *

It takes a week of following Madara around like a demented sort of duckling before the Uchiha begin to relax around him, and he, _finally_ , starts to see the true movement of the clan in its natural state.

It makes Tobirama look around with an odd sort of wonder in his expression, a painful nostalgia settling in his lungs.

They’re much noisier than the Senju were at this time, but it reminds Tobirama of _Konoha_. That gigantic, bustling village that does not yet exist. There are teens dancing on the street, or maybe practicing their fighting styles? No, it’s much too carefree and fluid.

There is a gaggle of women giggling together on the porch of one of the houses, a few holding babes wrapped close to their breast. More distantly, he can hear happy screaming of children, and the bustle of workers shouting at each other as they build a new house.

Madara makes his way to the women, to ask about their health, and Tobirama follows, keeping a couple paces of distance of the group that throws him uneasy glances.

The quantity of presences against his senses, and the sheer happiness and _liveliness_ steals his unneeded breath away. Both things that had gradually faded away from his senses back then, first happiness, then life itself. Ebbing like low tide, draining away until his senses could only grasp vainly at nothing. He closes his eyes and basks in the wonderful feeling, until Madara’s crackling presence approaches.

“Alright?” he blinks his eyes open to see Madara frowning at him, that crease in the corner of his eyes that comes from concern.

“Yes,” he inclines his head, crossing his arms, “Just… I missed this feeling. So many people in one place,” he shrugs, “and happy.”

He doesn't know what shows through his wistful tone, as Madara’s eyes widen; and perhaps he wasn’t expecting such an open response. “...I see.”

Tobirama can’t help but quirk a corner of his mouth in amusement. “I certainly hope you do.”

Madara’s eye _twitches_ at him, and it’s glorious.

The women who had been eavesdropping titter in amusement, Madara's neck flushing from collarbone to jaw before the red climbs to his nose, which turns as red as strawberries.

Tobirama shakes his head at the comparison, before he turns his gaze to the group of women who no longer seem fearful, just wary, and dips his head in a respectful bow. The more bold of them answers him in kind, even as the ones further away close in to whisper among themselves.

He considers for a moment, before eyeing Madara from the corner of his eyes. "Where is Kagami?"

"With his mother, I wager," the man answers carelessly, scratching his still red nose, which is patently _adorable_ , and that is a most unfair adjective to use for a grown man, "Koemi is still recovering, and I think she might be paranoid over someone else taking Kagami away again."

Tobirama turns his gaze forward, raising a hand to comb through the fur around his neck. "Why was he so far out?"

Strawberry-red turns into pepper-red. " _Father_ took him, and no one can figure out why," Madara says lowly, "He didn't even ask for Koemi's permission, just caught the kid and left."

Ah.

If Tajima ever returns, Tobirama thinks he might be justified in subduing the man and testing a Zetsu-tailored exorcism. He has the feeling Madara wouldn't object, considering the endangerment of a child. His lips thin.

"He's... what, five years old?" His voice comes out colder than he intended, but Madara's glance back at him is-- amused.

"Not yet. Just completed four years. Koemi's cousin, Akio, was supposed to be helping them while she was sick," he mulls over that information for a few moments.

"Would you object to visiting her?" Tobirama asks. Maybe he can help with some medical techniques-- he might not be able to perform all of them as an undead, but most he can use natural energy instead of his own warped chakra.

Madara studies him for a moment. The creases around his eyes soften. "Not at all."

* * *

Carefully, Hashirama stows the scroll in his sleeve and wonders if it would be a good idea to talk to Butsuma about this new development, once his father is back. Probably not.

Just as it probably was a bad idea to have taken the scroll from Tobirama’s desk, he thinks guiltily. Still, Tobirama didn’t say anything. Hashirama avoided looking at him, because surely there would be that disapproving frown on his face, the same one whenever Hashirama talks about peace with the Uchiha.

It’s not a lofty dream. It’s not impossible. One day, he’ll even achieve it.

He makes his way to a quieter part of the compound, leaving the sounds of day time working at a distance, lets his feet direct him to his favorite garden.

Uchiha saving a Senju squad-- does this mean Madara has _said_ something? Had some of them _listened_? Maybe he could get some of the Senju to be less… inclined to fight, it would certainly help.

Maybe he can send a letter? Ask after Madara?

He can’t mention this to Tobirama. His brother would skin him alive for this, for thinking of his 'impossible peace'.

Tobirama has always discarded his dream, everytime Hashirama tells him of what he imagines, he scoffs. He disdains Hashirama's vision of the future, although he never _says_ anything, but Hashirama knows what the frown on his brother's face means. What it's always meant.

But it’s alright-- like his friend Katsuro in the Daimyo’s court said, Hashirama can do this his way, and show how he’s right later. Tobirama won’t be angry then, when all turns out well. He'll see.

Hashirama hums, happy. Tomorrow, the Uzumaki entourage for his fiancée will arrive.

His father’s mission should be finished soon, and he should be back in two weeks at most. 

Things are finally looking up.

* * *

He stumbles into a chest.

Drained as he is, he slumps. Does not fight the hands that take hold of his elbows. The leather is cool against his cheek.

He can’t remember how long he’s been walking, stumbling along the roots of the trees. His heart hurts, and his lips shape a word, but no sound comes out, for a moment he feels utterly breathless.

The hands on his arms tighten for a moment, slide against his shoulders and scalp… His face is tucked against a neck, legs gingerly lifted until his aching feet can’t feel the dirt anymore.

Where did his shoes go?

Izuna rolls his neck, bleary eyes barely opening properly, he sees… a mask. It’s the stupidest thing. The man is obviously shinobi, by the strength of his grip, what shinobi willingly limits himself with a _blindfold_?

He tells the man so. Or thinks he does, anyway.

He doesn’t remember if he gets an answer.

“It’s alright,” he says, voice slurred like a drunk, “I'll see for you.”

Before he can make good on his promise, to watch the path, to watch for enemies, darkness drags him under. But he thinks the man flinches.


	7. Chapter 7

_“Up,” he says lightly. Like a friend. But friends don’t kick their friends when they’re curled up on the ground. “I said, get up.”_

_“Go bother someone who cares,” he snarls back, swiping a hand blindly in his assailant’s direction._

_“There is no one else,” he says inexorably. It is truth, “Now get up. You’re going to kill him for the third time.”_

_“Me?!” trembling, he braces a hand on the wall, knowing his face is turning ugly in his rage and not caring, “How many fell to your blade? You don’t get to talk like that!”_

_“Don’t be childish,” he kicks him back to the ground, uncaring of the pained noise, “You’re not the one who had the choice of kill or be killed. All you’re doing is wallowing in self-pity and you know it.”_

_His only answer is an angered hiss, and he dodges another pathetic attempt at his feet._

_“Get up, Madara. I certainly hope you’re not leaving Izuna’s fate in my hands again.”_

_“There’s no fate,” he spits in the direction of the ground, “There’s no fate if his soul is gone! You felt it too, how any and all free souls were just…”_

_“Ripped apart,” he completes blandly, “Yes, I felt them. My family, your family, everyone that we ever outlived, gone,” the tone is the same; the words harshen everything._

_He knows. Itama, Kawarama, Touka._

_“The longer we spend here, so will we disappear. So will the rest of the living, for all that their souls are naturally shielded by their bodies. So get. Up. And do something.”_

_“Go choke on a kunai, Tobirama,” Madara bares his teeth at him._

_In the end, there’s no real choice._

* * *

Madara doesn’t know what to do.

Sarada is back at the village, and he has an unconscious br-- _person_ in his arms. There’s something wrong with him, but he can’t tell what without an in depth scan.

He’s still moving, resisting the urge to stop and pace in the forest itself, keeping a fast run back to the room they had rented. He’s going to have to dodge just about anyone in the village, and get Sarada to check him.

Not that it’s hard to dodge a town full of _civilians_ , but…

Again, Madara doesn’t know what to _do_.

What is he going to do with himself? This person…

A shiver crawls up his spine, making his shoulders hunch slightly, bringing a soft and pained breath to his cheek.

_One thing at a time_ , Tobirama’s mantra, said with an insincere smile once, when Madara had been screaming at him.

He’ll bring this person to Sarada.

Afterwards, he can think himself into a corner.

* * *

He’s thinking on Koemi, sweet Koemi and exuberant Kagami, who had been delighted to show him his new friends, a variety of insects, when he feels it.

The visit to Koemi had been rather bittersweet, where she had wretchedly thanked him for bringing her precious son back to her. Kagami had woken up and found them in her living room, delighted in climbing all over him and asking for more classes on little practical things he could use chakra on, and just being an adorable nuisance.

Koemi had barely cared on her son being saved by Senju, nothing beyond a hurried _thank god there are no more child hunters_ , and fussed over Tobirama’s tea.

He feels it skitter across his matrix like spiders on his spine, and he straightens before spreading his senses. He is looking into the distance, trying to discern what he’s feeling. That _had_ _been_ an Uchiha squad. His senses unfold further, further--

The group of Uchiha a few paces away falls silent as his chakra is so obviously spread into the ground, and Madara turns sharply to look at him. Madara, who reaches him as his eyebrows raise, before he forces a blank look on.

The black eyes search his face for a moment, a hand circling the wrist with the covered oath. Tobirama doesn’t know what is spilling over, but he also knows this won’t be well received. He considers not saying anything, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it will do him no good.

If Madara asks, he’s bound to answer _something_ , and it will have to be truth.

“Madara,” he begins. The man frowns, shoulders rising at his tone, “Where _is_ your brother?” he asks slowly.

It’s like Tobirama pours bleach on him. Color drains from his face, and even his hair seems to be suddenly greyed and weakened against gravity. “Why are... you asking?” he grits out with difficulty.

Tobirama considers the squad, considers the way the presence of his fellow summon spikes and churns, considers Sarada’s panicked presence… and Izuna’s twisted into itself and feeling like a nail on a board. “His squad is dead,” and he makes his voice as toneless as possible.

The rest of the group startles. Madara is still, like a frozen pike. One of the older men snarls “Liar!”

Tobirama turns what he knows is an unnatural gaze on the man. “I cannot lie to my oath-bound,” he informs drily. The man backpedals with wide eyes, the group enfolding him back among them seamlessly, shuffling until a woman steps forward.

“You are… oath-bound to Lord Madara?” she says it like it’s an impossible thing, but she shakes her head before he answers, “You can sense Lord Izuna? How far?”

Tobirama considers the numbers of presences and natural energy along the way to Sarada’s presence, counts agglomerations. “There are five to seven settlements between this compound and Izuna, three bigger villages and two mobile encampments. If I had to guess, two to three weeks of fast paced travel.”

“No one can sense that far,” the man from before snaps again, safe from within the group.

Tobirama rolls his eyes and turns to Madara. “I’ve always been able to sense _that_ _far_ , even when alive.”

He hoped it would elicit a response, but it was obvious it wouldn’t; Madara had started shivering. He twisted his lips and tried to feel along the oath, but it felt jagged and full of glass shards.

“What is your policy for lost squads?” he asks the woman even as he keeps his gaze on Madara.

She hesitates. “We send a stealth and recover group,” she finally relents. He thinks she’s finally looked at Madara and seen he was in no state to give orders. Tobirama considers him before reaching into his pockets for one of the artificial crystals he’d put together, imbuing it with a seed of healing, natural energy.

“Here,” he offers it to her without looking, “Give it to your group. It should keep them safe.” She takes it.

He doesn’t concern with them any longer, however. He has to ground Madara _now_. The jagged points of the oath are growing and sharpening, and Tobirama is beginning to hear a shrill howl from it.

“Madara.”

The sharingan focuses on him. Tobirama toes a seal on the dirt, pushing the group away from them both.

“ _Madara_.”

His throat bobs and his mouth opens, and the howling agony from the oath climbs in volume. Tobirama braces his feet, and thinks on the quickest manner to shake him, and he knows it will be terrible, even as he steps closer and turns his voice into a whisper.

“Madara, I killed Izuna.”

* * *

Tobirama is talking to Touka, just returned from a mission, when something _explodes_ against his senses.

He startles, feet caught on a rock and falls forward into his cousin, clutching at her. Touka, bless her, doesn’t start blaring in his ears, just catches him with a tight hold and lowers them to the ground.

Not that he can pay attention, senses confused and stretching until he finds what he’s looking for: a supernova of agony and fury smack dab in the center of the Uchiha compound.

He knows that presence. He’d never paid close attention to the Uchiha compound, not beyond noting Uchiha moving in the direction of Senju, but he could recognize Madara’s presence from the many times they had found themselves in battle.

Madara Uchiha, in mourning.

_Oh no_ , he struggles to breathe, even as he frantically spreads his senses as far as he can, _Where is Izuna?_

He can’t find him. He knows Izuna’s presence even better than Madara’s, but he can’t find him. It can’t have been Senju, he knows, he’d made sure to not send any in the direction he had felt Izuna travelling. He can’t feel anyone from the small squad Izuna had been leading, actually.

How did he not feel that happening? The last cursory check he’d made on Izuna’s squad had been the night before. They had separated, but Tobirama had assumed they had been on some odd reconnaissance mission, as there had been no other presence with them. Now, barely half a day, he could no longer feel Izuna and Madara-- Madara must have just received the news.

“Cousin?” Touka’s voice is the softest murmur against his ear, something that makes him immensely grateful for. He swallows, trying to pull his voice from the frisson of not-quite-fear lodged in his throat.

“Izuna Uchiha is dead,” he murmurs back, “Madara is…” he flounders.

“Angry,” he can hear her lips twist in displeasure, “Who did it?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, shifting so his knees can settle firmly on the ground and he can stop clutching her like a teddy bear, “Not any of ours.”

“A civilian?” she asks, but she doesn’t believe herself.

“No,” he shook his head, mind racing, “He was somewhere to the north doing some uncommon recon,” he focus his senses back on that place, but there’s nothing. No residue. Even as he sinks his nails on the ground, he can’t feel anything.

He frowns.

“There’s nothing there,” not even _Izuna’s_ residue energy. Izuna should have left _something_ behind, but all he can feel is the faint trail from the Uchiha compound to the place he last sensed him.

And then, nothing.

Did Izuna die there?

“Cousin?” Touka is eyeing him with a frown.

It’s a bad idea, Tobirama knows. He has work to do. He has a brother to wrangle, and Uchiha damage control to manage. He has _too many things_ to do in the compound, things he knows can fall apart if he’s not there to supervise.

Madara is still burning at the edge of his senses. Ruining his concentration and seeping into his thoughts, a person mourning their own brother so _fervorously_.

(He tells himself he’s not jealous.)

“Come with me, cousin?” he asks quietly. Hashirama is in the compound, the Uzumaki entourage is settling in well, and the princess seems very sensible. Hashirama can run the compound for a change, he thinks wildly.

Touka studies him. “Get your things,” she says, “and leave a note. Tell him I dragged you to a fun village.”

He smiles wryly at her, “Go get your things too, cousin. I’ll meet you at the gates.”

* * *

There are a thousand jumbled thoughts in Izuna’s head when he wakes, and none of them is _I’m glad I’m still alive_.

Shinobi that lose a fight hope the outcome is death, because if it’s not, they are in trouble.

“You are in Naneki Village,” a woman’s voice says from two feet away, “You stumbled into my cousin in the forest. What’s the last thing you remember?”

He thinks on it for a moment. Senju. Obviously Senju. Attacked his squad, attacked him, was now subtly trying to _interrogate_ him.

He supposes he should be minimally grateful he’s not yet in the torture stage.

“Darkness,” he mumbles, “We were camping, it was too dark…”

The woman hums, and it’s obvious she doesn’t believe him. “There’s water on your bedside.”

He gingerly opens his eyes. His hands and feet are free, his eyes uncovered-- the light of the sun makes him squint. Turning his head make all the aches from his ears to his shoulders flare up, Izuna winces.

Not so much a woman as a teenager, is the delirious thought. She has short dark hair, dark eyes, and the peculiarly delicate bone structure of the Uchiha, but she’s interrogating him.

On the window behind her, there’s a man-- a man with a blindfold over his eyes and hair tied into tight topknot decorated with a deep green ribbon. Face turned towards the sun, Izuna wonders at him.

Both the teen and the man are in only light yukata, and a painful roll of his head shows that so does he.

“I did not sign up for an orgy,” escapes his lips. The girl drops her book while the man overbalances out the window, and Izuna thinks that it serves them right.

He’s still tired, though. Laboriously, he gets the cup and sips the water, thanking the forethought of having his sleep reclined instead of entirely laying down. It’s enough to drain the little energy he recovered, and he drops back into sleep soon after the girl gently takes the cup from him.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time he wakes, the sun has set, the girl is dozing on the windowsill, and the man is nowhere to be seen. He can sit up, unbound, which only makes him more confused. They don’t look like Senju, he can’t feel chakra being used but he’s never seen these Uchiha.

Never, in his entire life in the Uchiha compound, he has seen these two. It begs the question: are they exiled? Somehow renegade? Are there other Uchiha wandering about that the clan Izuna lives in doesn’t know?

Did Tajima know? He doesn’t think so, to be quite honest, Tajima was more the sort to kill their criminals than simply exile them. Bloodline thieves would have been far more lax in trying to capture Uchiha than they were used to, otherwise.

He gingerly leaves the bed, careful to be quiet, enough that the girl doesn’t stir. The room has space enough for all three of them to lay down bedding and sleep, he even catches sight of rumpled bedding in the corner close to the window.

Where has that blind man gone?

Slowly, he makes his way to the door. He has no weapons, true, but he can’t see them anywhere in the room either.

The door opens with minimal creaks. The girl doesn’t stir, which makes his derision towards her lack of vigilance grow. He steps out, sliding it closed, and tilting his gaze into the corridor. It’s empty.

He can hear minimal bustle of people beyond the walls. Naneki Village, the girl had said. His lack of recognition means it must be a small village, unimportant to big merchant routes. It also means he has no idea where in the country he is, if he is still in Fire Country.

He has to go back to Madara. He _has_ to.

Wary of the odd weight to his body, to his muscles, Izuna makes slow progress to the outside. Despite the subdued noise outside, he passes no one. Once he sees the night sky again, he’s struck oddly dumb by the realization that he has even managed to get this far. He sets his shoulder against the wooden column, eyeing the odd civilian coming and going with quick steps, late for dinner, late for actual good sleep. This is the kind of town that wakes and sleeps with the sun, he can tell.

Then he realizes, in his state, he can’t fend for himself in the forest. At best, he could pretend to be a beggar to slowly make his way back, but that would take weeks, if not months. By then, Madara would have sent a squad to get him back, and maybe even been notified of Izuna’s disappearance. At least, he knows his brother would not stop looking until his body was found.

“Seen reason?” the raspy voice startles him out of faintly hysterical thoughts, and he turns to find the blind man a few steps behind him, arms crossed and stance loose.

Izuna blinks at him. “How long have you been there?”

“Since you decided to throw caution to the wind,” the man shrugs sarcastically at him, “You’re not recovered. Go lay down.” He settles against the wall.

“Aren’t you going to drag me back, then?” Izuna feels his hackles rising at the patronizing words, “What terrible captors you are.”

The man lifts his chin, and despite being blind, Izuna has the sudden thought that he sees through Izuna completely. “I have no desire to be kicked, so your choices are to collapse where you are, and then I’ll laugh when you wake with a sore back, or get back into bed where you may recover faster.”

Izuna rolls a shoulder, uneasily. “You’re not going to touch me?”

“No.”

The answer is abrupt and cuts the conversation down to nothing. Izuna stares, studies the man-- the blindfold is oddly intricate, embroidered and folded cloth underneath a metal sheet with looping engravings. His ink black hair is tied up and back into that tight topknot he remembered seeing, this time decorated with a blue ribbon. What hair isn’t tied back is parted neatly in the middle and brushed to glossiness, curling along the man’s cheeks. The man’s very much Uchiha-esque cheeks, and even the slant of his mouth is familiar.

The high-collared robes the man is wearing are dark colored-- or perhaps, once were, as they were faded. Maybe they had once been black, but Izuna can only discern some odd brown shade now.

Izuna slides down the column, sitting harshly on the ground. “...I want to go home.”

The man doesn’t move in his direction, only slides to sit on the ground as well. Izuna closes his eyes and rests against the wood. He’s already dead tired again. He doesn’t want to go back to that room, but he’s going to end up falling asleep here again.

“What do I call you?” he murmurs. The silence stretches on.

When he’s almost asleep, the man answers him with an odd note. “Hibiki.”

_Like ripples in a pond_ , Izuna thinks nonsensically even as he surrenders to the darkness.

* * *

Madara comes to himself with Tobirama’s face inches from his own and a pain in his chest. His mind is sluggish, blinking as he tries to comprehend the scenario and remember what caused it.

It takes him longer than it should to let his neck bend so he can look at what is burning right over his heart. His fleeting thoughts had assumed Tobirama had stabbed him, for whatever reason ( _they’re enemies, right? right?_ ), and now he’d be facing his death, but he looks down and sees pale hands carefully removing a stake.

Wait. What?

“Don’t move,” Tobirama’s lips brush his cheek, “You don’t want this sliding back inside.”

For one, a stake _that fucking big_ should not be able to _slide back inside_. For another, what the fuck. “Did you…?” he can’t finish the question. The stake’s form wavers, and his hind-brain gibbers in fright as what seem like hungry tendrils of smoke try to latch onto his skin.

Tobirama clicks his tongue, and a pale hand sharply brushes the tendrils away. “Oh no, I’ve come this far, you’re not undoing all my hard work. Madara, where’s your brother?”

Madara frowns, mind filled with questions and question marks. “Hashirama should be in his compound,” he says, tone clipped even as he follows the stake’s slow path outward, “What do I care?”

The stake’s form wavers. “He should be, yes,” Tobirama quips back, the strangest curve forming on his lips still pressed against Madara’s cheek, “Why, he’d cry if you said that to his face.”

“That’s his own fault,” he feels his frown deepen, the stake wavering with new tendrils, although they seem unable to truly find a hold in his skin, “He has his own wife and kids to worry about, as do I,” he mutters sullenly.

“Still,” Tobirama nuzzles him, smile widening, “You know he’d come running if you asked.”

The stake quivers, tendrils retracting on their own. “I know. He’s an idiot like that.” Something bittersweet fills Madara’s mouth. Hashirama is an idiot with too big a heart, and he knows that he still has a place in it. Somewhere, somehow, Hashirama would always welcome him with open arms.

“There we go,” the undercurrent of frenzied delight in Tobirama’s voice calls his attention, and he sees the last bit of the stake, a wicked and terrible point with a dreadful curve, resembling more a fish hook than anything else, slide out of his chest.

He’s afraid to ask. He’s afraid not just because of the shape of the stake, but also because it shimmers before dulling, a thousand thin lines tied to its needle-eye snapping with nary a sound before it fades from existence. It had looked heavy as well.

He feels strangely bereft, lighter from a weight he hadn’t known he carried.

Tobirama pats the cheek opposite his own face. He realizes he doesn’t really want to move.

“How do you feel?” the dry lips sigh against him.

“Something’s...missing,” he blinks down. He frowns. “Why is my hand in your chest?”

Tobirama laughs at him. “I find it interesting that it’s the first place you reflexively attacked,” he says freely, like Madara hasn’t ripped out his heart. His _unbeating_ heart. Uh.

“Can I pull it out now?” It’s kind of a gruesome sight, but he can’t look away. There’s no blood gushing, no warmth, no beating.

“Hm. Open the rest of my shirt, will you?”

Madara considers the oddest request he’s ever heard: an undead revenant asking a man literally holding his heart to undress his shirt. He has no words, so he just carefully uses his left hand to peel the fabric away from cold flesh. It becomes apparent what the revenant is looking for, however: There are lines of chakra running across his skin, and _those_ beat in the rhythm of a heart. “What...am I looking for?”

Tobirama is quiet for a moment. His gaze bores into the side of Madara’s head. “Are any of the lines broken?” He asks after a moment, a careful lilt to the words. Following them with a finger, Madara notes with surprise that no, he managed to find the one spot with no lines. Unless there was something else drawn under his hand, but he doubts it.

“No,” he answers.

“You’re still holding it?” Tobirama asks again. Madara is made aware of the very squishy something his right hand grips and grimaces, “Pull it back in, if you’d be so kind.”

He has an idea what the squishy thing is, and _he’s not going to ask_. This whole situation will be enough to give him nightmares for days, _yuck_.

Once it’s at the height that seems appropriate, Madara feels the unnatural flesh begin surrounding his hand and quickly releases the thing to bring his arm out and back to his own body.

He still doesn’t move, and Tobirama seems content to leave him be. Probably waiting for his chest to heal completely. He has the oddest feeling that if he moves, he might float away. Like he's released from gravity.

“Madara?” Tobirama finally asks, maybe when his chest is healed. He doesn’t follow it with another question, however. Almost like he doesn’t know which question to ask.

Madara inhales and thinks back. He’d been talking to some elders, trying to talk about plans and hearing their suspicions and demands to send the revenant on his way. They’d been interrupted by Tobirama abruptly blanketing his chakra around him, and when he’d gone to ask-- “Izuna,” he whispers, feeling his heart constrict in his chest, “Izuna is dead.”

The hand on his cheek pats him again, “Not at all,” Tobirama murmurs, “His squad is, but he’s not.”

He feels the news settle against his soul like a balm to an aching bruise, but is restrained from other movement.

“Unfortunately,” Tobirama sighs against his ear, “He’s also possessed. I can’t let you get close to him.”

Madara jerks away, to stare at the man straightening before him. “He’s my brother,” he says sharply, “I have to help him.”

Tobirama just clicks his tongue at him again. “Does my oath mean nothing?” Madara reels back at the sharp ice in his voice, “This is a ploy to get to _you_. He has plenty of help where he is.”

He wants to protest. He wants to say ‘he’s my only brother’. Wants to say ‘if I don’t help him, no one will’. But that’s just it, Tobirama knows all these arguments. Tobirama knows, and is still looking steadily at him, strange chakra lines on his chest in display through the hole Madara made on his shirt.

If he disrupts those lines, Tobirama is compromised. They are a weakness.

Tobirama has also said he has help.

“Who is helping him?” and gods be willing, Madara won’t break their neck. Izuna will be fine, and Madara won’t need to stab someone.

Tobirama crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. “You also know there are things I can’t answer you.”

For all that the words are supposed to incite his anger, he stares at the revenant with an oddly still heart. “Are you loyal to _them_ , or are they loyal to _you_?”

There’s the strangest quirk to pale lips. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.”

“If Izuna isn’t returned to me unharmed, we’ll see how much.” 

* * *

Hashirama has been in the clouds for days, now. Mito is an absolute delight, and once she had been assured he cared very little for unnecessary formality, she’d taken quickly to whispering sarcastic comments behind her sleeves that had him in stitches, laughing hard enough to hurt his throat. He’d had to assure many of the Uzumaki delegates that _no_ , he wasn’t laughing at them, just a joke. That he had remembered. About racoons, trees, and waste left outside the compound.

To be quite fair, he’s privately sure that the entire delegation knows their charge well enough to know what he’s actually laughing at, but he’s not going to say that to their faces. And he thinks they might be privately relieved that he’s not insulted by her comments.

(How can he be insulted when she mentions elder Tanaka’s potato nose? He thought the same thing! At least Tobirama had made sure he knew not to say it _out loud_ , but they all thought that. And she’d smiled so sweetly at elder Tanaka right after, the man was clearly charmed. Hashirama had to bite his lips not to fall into hysterics.)

He knows that, even if it’s an arranged marriage, it won’t be a boring one.

With a soft smile on his face as he skips into their home, he wishes he could write Madara to share the joyful news. A wedding! He will have to arrange preparations and start orders for food and cloth and fireworks.

“Lord Hashirama?” he turns with a hum to face elder Chiko. Her work is kept to the accountant side, as she’s the one who talks to the civilians to see their general goods production. Even so, today she looks faintly preoccupied, “Have you sent your brother in a mission?”

“No?” he frowns.

“I have been looking for him to check over these accounts,” she holds up a few sheafs of paper, “Perhaps you could look it over, then, Lord, since I have found you instead. These were needed yesterday.”

Hashirama wilts at her tone. Tobirama must be holed up in his room with experiments again, he thinks with a sigh. Maybe let him have some free time, and Hashirama will deal with the accounting for a few days. Tobirama does deserve breaks too, he knows.


End file.
